A World Known
by Your-Typical-WhiskeyTango
Summary: Mysteriously transported to one of your favorite fictional universes? Some might say that's a dream come true, but Jason knows better. When the future inevitably involves the Reapers, there's only one road left to take. The branching paths are the true test. (Original story written by JonathanO'Riley)
1. Prologue

_'Mass Effect' and all associated video games, films, and novels belong to _Bioware_ and _Electronic Arts_. Please support official releases._

_To Jonathan O'Riley: Thanks for giving me this story and its outline to adapt as my own. I'll take good care of it while you work on that book of yours._

* * *

**A World Known**

It was as if I was suffering from the worst hangover of my entire life. My head felt as if it was about to explode, and my stomach was on the verge of emptying out whatever contents it contained. My vision was blurred, the crust in my eyes not helping. I felt groggy and cranky as my legs and arms fought against my commands.

_What the hell happened last night_, I asked myself with an agitated groan. Scattered and unorganized flashes of the previous night began flowing through my head, but they stopped when the vague memory of a certain individual coercing me to do vodka shots popped up. _Michael_. The guttural noises escaping my lips became louder and angrier._ I'm going to kick his_... the thought was cut off when I realized where I had been laying. A very hard and very cold floor. In a very dark and very smelly alley.

"Wha-... what the shit?" I rubbed away the crust from my eyes with the only hand willing to partially listen to me, attempting to focus my vision however little I could in the darkness.

"Mike?" I asked aloud, still slow and half asleep, after scanning the surroundings to find no other soul. My voice eerily echoed through the long and seemingly endless alleyway. "Seriously, man. This isn't funny!"

I continued to listen in hope of a response but found it to be a futile effort. It didn't take long for panic to begin setting in. My eyes were wide in an inherent fear of having been left behind at an unknown place and time, no significant recollection of prior events presently available. Fortunately, I soon noticed a small ray of light coming from the distance behind me. The alley seemed to continue on for at least a hundred or so yards in that direction.

With the only hope of learning my location that far-reaching source of illumination, I raised to my feet after several failed attempts and slowly maneuvered towards it. I was practically limping at first, barely able to not trip over myself. However, with a short time of stretching my legs and getting my body back into practice, my pace turned into a slightly uneasy but reasonable walk. The nausea seemed to steadily dissipate as well.

_Okay..._ _think hard and remember_.

As I got ever closer to the end of the alleyway, with the originally small light gradually becoming garish, I attempted to focus as much of my attention as possible on memory gathering.

_You and the squad drove to Manhattan. Went to a night club. Then you went to a bar and you were celebrating..._ I squinted my eyes and tried putting more brainpower into the thoughts. _You were celebrating your twenty-first birthday!_ With a shake of the head, I grimly chuckled to myself. _I love those guys, but I'm going to kill them!_

To be honest, this had not been the worst of our close-knit group's misadventures. It was difficult to be angry when you'd done deeds that were just as foolishly stupid but nonetheless hilarious to the same people responsible. With that said, we had all agreed years ago to abandon such activities, our childhood lives long over. A couple of the guys were already starting families, and there had been enough scares in the past to learn the lesson of restraint.

By the time I was within a few dozen yards of the end of the alley, the beaming light had almost rendered me blind. However, the familiar sounds of a major city were as loud in my ears as ever, dozens if not hundreds of people walking and crowding together. The aromas of foods from various different cultures mixed together to form a unique scent. Yet, something wasn't right. Many of the voices I was beginning to hear were not in English, and the smell in the air was different.

Having been born and lived my entire life in New York City, the distinct smells of Manhattan, with all of its sub-communities such as China Town and Little Italy, had become ingrained in my memory and senses. These foreign languages sounding off before me were none I had ever heard before. I may not have been able to speak anything other than English and some Spanish, but I knew what the other popular languages of Manhattan, including Mandarin Chinese and Italian, sounded like. Everything now entering my ears was alien.

_I'm still in Manhattan... right? Because I swear, if I'm somehow in Newark or Jersey City..._

Then I took note of an important detail. As the floor at my feet was all I could clearly see without burning my pupils, it was impossible to not realize that I was standing on metal. Nowhere in sight was there concrete or asphalt. Unless my memory had well and truly been shot, no North American city I had ever visited could claim to provide streets or sidewalks crafted from metal.

_Where the hell am I?!_

Allowing my eyes to further adjust to the light, I finally looked forward with relative clarity only to have my mind blown away by what was revealed. Standing a few yards away, staring at me with an expression of confusion and suspicion, was a young-looking woman. The problem was that she had dark blue skin, these _tentacle_-like appendages sticking out from the back of her head, and large symmetrical tribal tattoos on the sides of her face.

Yeah, I knew what she was supposed to be. I've played the games enough times to know, but I just didn't want to admit it to myself. It must have been some kind of well-made cosplay, and maybe there was a video game convention in the city that I didn't know about. That train of thought ended, though, when I saw the other people passing by the alleyway entrance.

There were _dozens_ of more blue woman standing in the street ahead, some even glancing at me with the same expression as the first. And when I looked up to the skyline for the first time, I saw countless aircars speedily soaring overhead. Once I finished staring in awe and disbelief, and after focusing more on the crowd in front of me, I noticed other strange figures scattered throughout. Some had green skin with ridiculously wide foreheads and large amphibian-like eyes. Others were almost bird-like with tough-looking skin, no lips, and 'spikes' at the back of their heads. To say I instantly sobered up was far from a lie.

_Asari... Salarians... Turians..._

I must have been daydreaming. What else could have explained it all? Believing this to be the case, I slapped myself across the face hard. Instead of waking in bed back at my home in Staten Island, however, I returned to the faces of aliens, whom's species should not have even existed, looking at me as if I was a looney. That was when it kicked in. That was when reality hit me in the face with the fist of Mike Tyson himself and I _knew_.

This place I found myself in was the fantastical world of Mass Effect: the home to legendary heroes and nightmarish villains, every teenage boy's greatest of dreams, and the wildest of Captain Kirk fantasies.

And I was petrified.


	2. (C1) The Coming Road

**Chapter One**

The Coming Road

I had been running, eyes wide and mind clear, for the past half of an hour, no clue where precisely my legs were taking me. My only concern was evading the two Turian C-Sec agents who'd made it their day's duty to hunt me down. Trying to blend in as one of the few lone humans surrounded by aliens, wearing severely outdated clothes and a fish-out-of-water look, had proven to be a more difficult task than anticipated.

_What are they even chasing me for?_, I bitterly thought to myself. _Probably some kind of stop-and-frisk bullshit_. Then again, in hindsight, running off the moment they glanced in my general direction hadn't been my brightest of ideas. The mind didn't work right when it was still recovering from a night out drinking mixed with a little interdimensional travel.

One of the Turians yelled over the crowds, pushing aside any who obstructed his path without remorse. The other officer called out another demand, and that time I caught the word "Human" in a certainly less than amused tone. I didn't know what they were saying in the alien language, but it wasn't hard to make an educated guess. They for sure weren't asking to take me out on a picnic.

Being in the middle of a heavily crowded area, which I could only assume was somewhere on the Citadel based on the giant nebula and ward arms in the sky, was as much of a curse as it was a life-saving coincidence. The games never showed or mentioned it, but those Turians were able to _run_, as in Human-Olympic-Runner fast, and it probably had something to do with their predatory biology. I may have stuck out from the rest like a sore thumb, but it was the dozens of bodies they had to navigate through that had stopped them from catching me insofar.

The chase continued on for another few minutes before my stamina began to take its toll. Adrenaline pumping or not, going full sprint for an enduring amount of time would drain the energy out of any normal _human_ person. By that point, I had turned too many corners to count and must have traveled four or five floors lower. The voices of the Turian officers sounding closer than ever reminded me that my options were running out.

Coming up on my right was what looked to be another narrow alley located between two mediocre storefronts. Ducking down to take advantage of the still dense crowd and hinder the Turians' line-of-sight, I pushed through my growing fatigue and sharply turned the corner into the darker back street. Through pouring sweat and panting breaths, my gaze filtered through the new surroundings to eventually find a large industrial garbage bin, similar to those one would see behind restaurants and grocery stores.

_Life is cruel_, I thought to myself, staring at my only possible salvation.

Mindful of my pursuers, I opened the bin's top lid and climbed inside after a brief hesitation. The foul smell and physical sensations of rotting food and other undesirables immediately overcame my senses, nearly causing me to vomit. It quickly became one of the most humiliating experiences of my life, but I mentally yelled at myself and pushed through. Garbage was better than a jail cell or psychiatric department.

I closed the lid above me and was once again encompassed by darkness, rapidly approaching footsteps stopping nearby soon afterward. A short conversation of alien chatter ensued before I heard the two pairs of feet begin drifting apart. One sounded as if it continued onward through the busy streets, but the other was slowly approaching into the alleyway.

Hearing the Turian in front of the garbage bin made my heart skip a beat. With no other options left, I closed my eyes, put my cleaner hand over my nose and mouth, and sunk down beneath the waist-high layer of garbage. Not a second passed before I heard the bin's lid open. If God truly existed, he must have answered my prayers, for the bin's lid was closed shut a hasty moment later. I waited for the officer's footsteps to drift further away and disappear before jumping up out of the muck with a deep breath. It was a nauseatingly putrid breath, but one I needed to take nonetheless.

I needed to be sure the coast was clear, and when acceptable certainty came, I carefully crawled back out into the alley. A sigh of relief, albeit a weak one, escaped my lips when my legs collapsed from under me. Exhausted and momentarily uncaring of my new coat of muck, I was content with finally having the chance to _think_.

Five or ten minutes might have passed when I emptied my pockets and mildly scattered the items on the ground between my knees. _My wallet, analog wristwatch, smartphone, sixty-four United States Dollars..._ That was more than I expected to have after last night. _T_hirty cents in change, my house keys...__ My hands subconsciously raised to my neck. _And _my golden cross necklace.__

With a sigh, my gaze lingered over the items that happened to be in my black jeans and hoodie when I was transported to this world. No food or water, and not any form of official identification or currency that was worth a damn in this period. Circumstances weren't looking swell. I didn't want to resort to mugging random people on the street, but it wasn't an option I'd discard if push came to shove. Survival was more important than pride. Regardless of my wishes_,_ I still required the bare necessities to brave the coming days.

Solemnly returning my personal belongings to my pockets, an idea suddenly hit me like a rock.

—

The balding man looked at me like I was the craziest thing he'd seen all day, and I probably was. A young man like myself walking into a late 22nd Century store, wearing clothes from the early 21st Century and half-covered in a layer of garbage, was not likely a normal occurrence. He was slowly scratching his graying beard, tired brown eyes lightly narrowed in suspicion. "You okay, kid? You look like shit."

"I _feel_ like shit," I admitted with a lazy nod. "But how about we cut the pleasantries?" I plopped all of my things, besides the wallet and watch, onto the shop counter. "How much can you give me?"

His eyes widened for a split second in brief surprise of the items he saw before turning to me with an amused smirk. "What is this crap?" He pointed at my cell phone and began laughing. "Is that one of those twenty-first-century smartphones? Where did you even get that?"

Seeing my blank stare, he simply closed his eyes, shook his head, and shrugged. "Alright, kid. You look like you really need the money. Hell, you need some _clothes_, so I'll be honest with you – I can't give much. Not because some of this wouldn't be valuable, but because all I own is a small pawnshop in the darker parts of the Wards. Not enough business comes my way to put money down for some of this stuff."

_Shit_. This was not going as planned, and the fact I was rubbing the bags beneath my eyes was proof of my frustration.

The shop owner noted the action with a sigh. "As I said, kid, I'm just being honest. If it hadn't looked like you took a nosedive into Chora's Den's weekend trash, then I would've happily stayed quiet and bought this stuff off you for no more than a few dozen credits."

The old man's honesty was appreciated, but it didn't ease the burden. I'd just finished spending nearly nine hours trying to get to this place, and five or six of those hours were of me attempting to travel to these parts of the Wards without detection by C-Sec. The last three or four were then spent searching for a pawnshop owned by someone who both spoke English and didn't care about identification. My New York State Driver's License would only cause problems, and it was not like I had an Omnitool to translate other languages, much less alien ones. After lying to a Human pedestrian in the area that I had gotten mugged by a group of Batarian thugs, I was finally pointed to this shop about a quarter of an hour ago.

So there I was, having foolishly led myself to believe that I could fill my aching stomach, put some fresh clothes on my back, and maybe even spare enough money for a motel room. All for naught. "Do you at least know where I _can_ get some money for this?"

He silently stared at me, as if considering his choices, before rubbing the back of his neck and answering with another sigh. "How old are you, kid?"

"Twenty-one," I stated tiredly. "Yesterday was my birthday."

An entertained smirk spread across his face. "Must have been one hell of a night."

I would've had to be incredibly dense to not figure out that he was trying to brighten the conversation a bit. Strangely enough, the effort seemed to work. "You have no idea," I declared with a genuine chuckle.

He snorted in amusement. "You might be surprised, kid. I've seen some dumb shit in my time – done even stupider."

Now I was smiling. "You know what, old man? You're actually pretty cool."

That elicited a belly laugh from the shop owner. "I wouldn't speak so soon, kid. We still haven't negotiated prices." He caught on quickly to my puzzlement. "What? I didn't say there wasn't anything I'd buy from you." He hastily looked over the few items resting on his store counter before picking up the key chain and necklace. "I can give you a decent amount of credits for this crap here."

For a few seconds, I merely gazed at the golden Christian cross hanging as it swung side-to-side. It was undoubtedly a beautiful piece of men's jewelry, having been given to me as a gift by Michael and friends on my eighteenth birthday. It apparently cost them a collective price of over five hundred dollars, mostly due to the solid piece of polished gold that was the cross pendant. I hated the idea of pawning it. "How much can you give me?"

He put the keys back down and used a minute to examine the necklace. "I can give you one-fifty for the gold."

I had to hold in a scoff. "That pendant is a solid piece of fourteen-karat polished gold. Four hundred credits." Out of the few things I had ever searched the Mass Effect wiki for out of sheer curiosity, the comparison of Credits to real-world currency was one of the articles I surprisingly remembered. If all of the prices of weapons, items, mods, etc., were compared fairly, a single Credit was roughly equal in value to a single USD. Surprising, considering Bioware was a Canadian company, but I wasn't about to complain.

The shop owner shook his head and squinted his eyes. "You see what prices for Gold are in today's market? Two hundred."

"I haven't, but I'm pretty sure you're still trying to be cheap with me." I crossed my arms and shot him a deathly serious face. "Three-fifty."

Another smirk formed on the man's face. "I like your spunk, kid. Two-fifty."

"Three twenty-five."

"Don't push your luck," he warned, though still with a small grin on his face. "Two seventy-five. That's as far as I'll go."

"C'mon, you can do a _little_ better than that, old man. Three hundred sounds fair to me."

"You're a stubborn one, kid." The smile on the shop owner's face never faded even as he continued. "But I'm staying at two seventy-five. Take it or leave it."

I grinned, grateful for the opportunity to embrace some humor in the situation. "Alright, deal. I take back what I said about you being cool, though."

"I'll live," he said as he opened a drawer on his side of the counter. He then pulled out an empty credit chit, put the device through a sort of scanner on his computer terminal, and pressed a few buttons on the holographic keyboard. He handed me the chit at the end of the process. "Now you can buy yourself some clothes."

"That's the plan. Maybe some food too while I'm at it." My gaze drifted to the key chain. "So what about the keys? Can't be worth much, can they?"

He motioned his head to the sides a few times in thought. "I'd say about fifty."

I was fairly surprised by that price. "Really? Just for a few useless metal keys?"

The shop owner crossed his arms and nodded. "You'll be surprised how many buyers are out there. Salarians especially seem to like collecting sets of old locks and keys made by the other races." He shrugged. "No idea why, but I don't question good business. Not me to complain about earning some extra credits."

"I'm not complaining either. Fifty credits are fifty credits." I suddenly chuckled again. "I'm not even mad that you're probably conning me for a low price. Five or ten credits was the most I thought I'd get out of them."

He snickered. "Damn, should've aimed lower, huh?"

I nodded. "Wouldn't have blamed you, old man, but it's too late for that now, so hand over the fifty." After he resigned and gave me a second credit chit, I looked curiously at the small card-like device before turning back to him. "Why'd you give me two chits? Can't you just put the fifty credits on the first one?"

"I could," he admitted. "But that's never a smart move. If all your money is on a single chit, and you lose it, then you're shit out of luck. If you have two and you only lose one, well, you get the idea."

"Good point." Atop the counter were still the paper USDs and the obsolete smartphone. I sighed and put the second chit in my jeans. "So what should I do with these things?"

The pawnshop owner returned to scratching the length of his beard, which reached down to the bottom of his neck. "For the old currency? I can give you the names of a few private collectors if you don't want to go through public channels. They'll still pay pretty well, maybe even more." He then looked at the smartphone, a Samsung Galaxy S6. "As for that hunk of junk, I know some Salarians who love that kind of stuff. The payout won't be as good as the paper money, but it should be better than what you got from me, kid."

Before committing to anything, I needed some essentials, specifically a cheap omnitool and translator software. "Sounds good. I'm gonna need to buy a few things off you first..."

—

I crashed on the North American-style futon with a day's worth of exhaustion. The old piece of furniture smelled as if it had not been washed in ages, and the springboard beneath felt like it'd long been broken. Yet, at that moment, it was by far the most comfortable mattress I had ever laid upon. My body refused to allow me even the privilege of crawling under the covers, so complete was my fatigue. Having finished dealing with the most bizarre twenty-four hours of my life insofar, I doubted I was going anywhere until receiving at least eight hours of rest.

With nothing better to do other than fall into a deep slumber, I took the chance to gleam the surroundings of my sleeping arrangement. Stationed in the opposing corner of the approximately five-by-fifteen-yard rectangular room was a holographic television, and a set of bedsheets hung across the center of the living space, separating me from the only individual with a real bed. Not the best of conditions, but they served their purpose for the time being.

I didn't know what I had been expecting, but it was a tad difficult to believe a person's home on the Citadel could be so small and cramped. The possibility of the large space station having studio apartments wasn't something I could wrap my head around before that day. Was this not supposed the be the center of nearly all of galactic civilization? One might think a place like it, filled with wealth and advanced culture and technology, would have gotten passed such faults.

Alas, I was wrong to hold such an ignorant belief. It should have been obvious there'd be areas worse for wear on the lesser-known parts of the Citadel. Every major metropolis in history, from Rome to modern-day megacities, had been cursed with a similar hindrance. New York City, Chicago, Los Angeles, and even Washington D.C., at least in my originating time, had poorer districts where the lower class accumulated.

What surprised me, though, was how empty the apartment was. I could argue that it was barren even, appearing as if its denizen barely came home whatsoever. A thick layer of dust covered much of the empty shelving. Who would have thought a pawn shop owner on the largest and richest space station in the galaxy would be so economical, for lack of a better word?

And talking about the old man...

His name was Greg. I would've said it was oddly normal or bland for the 22nd Century if someone had asked, but I wasn't going to say anything after he'd taken me in for the night. Of course, I was paying him fifty credits per night for the accommodations, but that was beside the point. After having gone earlier in the day to see the antique collectors he'd mentioned, I was about fifty thousand credits richer, so spending a tiny fraction of that cache for a reasonable night's rest was the better alternative to sleeping on the streets due to the lack of ID required for a hotel room. Furthermore, just because I had been willing to pay him for a warm bed didn't mean he was obligated to accept me into his home. To him, I was a stranger he only just met several hours beforehand. He could have simply said "fuck off" and not cared less once we finished our business.

I owed the man a personal debt, whether or not he agreed.

Although I was functionally a burnt-out wreck after the day's events, my mind didn't easily let me to succumb to my desire for sleep. It kept me awake, causing me to muse over my current predicament instead, like a pestering bug. The day had been driven by instincts of survival, and I had not stopped for an amount of time to truly contemplate the far-reaching ramifications of it all. Now, the weight of everything that had occurred dawned on me.

There I was, having been mysteriously transported to the Mass Effect universe like the main character of a cheesy sci-fi flick or Japanese anime. The date was May 2nd, 2182, a full year before the events of the first game, or it might have been considering Bioware never mentioned which month of 2183 events took place. No matter, I was going to be trapped here for quite a while before anything remotely important happened. No friends to help me out. No family to support me. Just a pawnshop owner who happened to be a good Samaritan and the credit chits in the pockets of my new clothes. As I thought more about the circumstances, the creeping pain in my chest was getting harder to ignore. The reality that I might never again see the people I loved and cared for was setting in.

Prone I was not to admit it, a few tears fell that night. The only moment of weakness I allowed myself.


	3. (C2) Lost in Paradise

**Chapter Two**

Lost in Paradise

Loud music, sexualized Asari dancers, dozens of men over-indulging themselves in alcoholic beverages; a gentlemen's club could not be summarized simpler. The added petty criminals and mercenaries that roamed the grounds, though, were what distinguished Chora's Den from the others on the Citadel. The scum of the space station gathered together in a single location, throwing away their lives at the end of a bottle. It was the perfect place to drown one's sorrows in drink.

The idea was working well enough for me.

Pulling out a small identification card from my pocket, I examined it for perhaps the twentieth time since the morning. According to the details printed on it, I was no longer Jason Roberts, born 1995 in New York City, USA. Instead, I was now Jason Price, registered Systems Alliance citizen born 2161 in Vancouver, UNAS. _Yeah, I'm a freakin' Canadian now, eh?_

Real Citadel IDs supposedly had built-in microchips that could be scanned for verification, whether that be by an officer's or bartender's authorized omnitool. Just like all others, my card was equipped with the microchip too, and it was with great thanks to Greg and a "good friend" he had in C-Sec. It was, however, just a convincing forgery. The card would fool any C-Sec officer who scanned it on the streets, but it was doomed to fail under a real investigation and background check.

With a sigh that was muted by the commotion surrounding me, I slipped the ID back into my pocket and turned to the next shot glass waiting on the bar counter. There was a brief moment of hesitation, but I took the dark blue drink in my hand regardless. It was my sixth one since sitting down five minutes prior, so I had already grown a certain numbness to the burning sensation as it traveled down my throat. It still put a small grimace on my face.

_Guess this is how people become alcoholics._

After I returned the shot glass to the counter with a clink, my attention drifted to one of the four holographic television screens mounted on the large pillar behind the counter. All of the TVs were displaying the same Galactic News Broadcasting Corporation, or GNBC, newscast. The anchor was a tanned middle-aged Human man with brown hair and blue eyes.

_"... settled out of court with a Krogan group that charged the corporation with fraud. They paid Binary Helix for research to cure the Genophage, and then sued for their money back when nothing came of the research."_

I suddenly became very confused. The timing of this news story was wrong; it shouldn't have occurred until _after_ the attack on Eden Prime. Why was it happening now? Ideas began to cross my woozy and increasingly drunk mind. _If there's even one difference in this world, what's to say anything_ _else..._

_"In other breaking news,"_ the newscaster continued, abruptly interrupting my thoughts. _"The Systems Alliance and Turian Hierarchy happily finished negotiations over a military trade deal today, when the two reached an agreement in the form of a proposed naval collaboration project. To pave the way for a broader friendship between the once bitter enemies, a new ship will be co-constructed by a mixed team of Turian and Human engineers. Further information on the project has yet to be revealed, but a spokesperson for the Alliance Navy stated the ship is scheduled for completion by the next galactic standard year."_

_That's definitely the Normandy_.

I looked back down from the TV to the last two full shot glasses on the counter, their contents begging me to indulge. I reached out but managed to stop myself from taking one of them. The temptation was great. It would have been so easy

In this world that had become my reality, there were now only two paths for me. The first would become a downward spiral, nothing but the end of a bottle or shot glass awaiting me. I could have stayed in Chora's Den and continued pitying myself, living long and plainly enough to see the events of the Mass Effect games play out around me. Or, I could have manned-the-fuck-up, got my shit together, and did something productive with my life and time spent here. The knowledge was there in my head – it only needed to be used.

_Get up you jackass_, my mind's better half yelled. _You know what you need to do, so get off your ass and stop being useless._

"Need some help finishing that?" The sudden and unexpected question, spoken by a smooth feminine voice close behind, snapped me out of my reverie. I turned in my barstool to see an Asari leaning on the counter a couple feet away, her attention focused on me.

"Need some help finishing your drinks?" she asked again to my silence. Her speech was slow and seductive. Her attractive face, decorated with exotic white patterns around her crimson red eyes and soft blue lips, inched closer with every word. "You look like you're having some trouble."

It took me a moment to register what was going on before I looked down over the Asari's body. She was wearing the same revealing skin-tight jumpsuit as the dancers. Realizing she was one of them, I lifted my gaze to meet with her own. "I guess you can say that. Why do you ask?"

"You bought eight glasses of one of our most expensive drinks," she said while simultaneously extending her arm past me to rest her hand on the counter. In doing so, her blue breasts, barely covered by her clothing, were placed inches away from me. "Since I noticed you're new here, I was wondering if you needed a little motivation to finish up."

I was just a normal guy. So, like any other average joe would, I tended to get a bit excited when a nice pair of breasts were shoved in my face. Emphasis on the _nice_. They were big, round, must have been around the 34C size, and just looked so soft and... I roughly shook my head, breaking myself out of the train of thought caused by the hypnotic view. _Down boy._ "What kind of motivation are we talkin' about here?" _Wrong question!_

A smile fit for a succubus spread across the Asari's face. "You don't seem to mind spending some credits, so maybe..." She gently put her hand on my lower thigh and slowly slid it down to my knee, shooting a small shiver up my spine. "...we can get ourselves a booth and I can show you something special."

Continuing to stare into her alluring lust-filled eyes, a large battle waged inside my mind. She was a stripper, one who was doing her job very well. Would it hurt to relax some and have a little fun? _I'm probably going to regret this._ With a sigh, I reluctantly brushed her hand off my leg. "Had you come a minute sooner, I would have followed you to the back in a heartbeat."

Her smile dropped like a brick. She took a few steps back and crossed her arms, looking somewhat confused. "What happened in the last minute that changed your mind?"

I stood up from the barstool and shrugged my shoulders. "I kicked myself in the ass and, well, realized I had better things to do than waste my life away at a club. It doesn't have anything to do with you," I quickly reassured when I noticed her frown. "You're definitely someone I'd like to spend some time alone with. _Trust_ me!" A small chuckle escaped me before my serious expression returned. "But to tell you the truth, it just wouldn't be good for me right now."

For several long overly dramatic seconds, the unamused Asari continued to shoot a piercing glare. However, after apparently processing my words, she abruptly giggled with a shake of her head and a cute little smile. "You're strange."

I nervously rubbed the back of my neck in response. "Well, uh... okay."

Seeing my awkwardness, her smile changed to a softer and almost sympathetic one. "I mean you're different from the other men. Most are Humans and Turians that come walking in looking for some fun, if you know what I'm saying." She cupped the bottom of her breasts in her hands and jiggled them a couple of times to accentuate her hidden meaning. "You're the first one with full pockets to ever decline my offer."

I cocked a curious eyebrow. "How long have you worked here?"

"Almost forty standard years," she admitted after a short moment in thought.

"That _is _strange." My lips curved into a small smirk. "That why you're still talkin' to me?

"Don't get the wrong idea," she snorted. "Any of the other girls would have ditched you without a second thought."

I noticed she did not deny the implication of my question. "But?"

She rolled her eyes as the smile on her face grew a bit bigger. "It's nice to see something different for a change."

My following laugh was probably more than a little influenced by my drunkenness, which was getting stronger as time passed. I wasn't laughing at her reasoning, but more the wild truth of the fact I was considered 'something different.' _If only she knew._ Ignoring the puzzled gaze of the Asari, I turned to pick up the two remaining shot glasses on the counter and then motioned to give her one of them. "Take it."

Her smile disappeared, eyes slightly widening in uneasiness. "I can't drink while I'm working."

"Aw, c'mon," I pleaded. "It's just one shot, and I already paid for it anyway, so what's the harm? Besides, you offered to help me finish them."

She stared into my eyes for a moment before looking down at the glass, slowly warming up to the idea the longer she thought about it. After what felt like much more than a few seconds, she hesitantly took the drink from my hand with a nervous smile. "What are we toasting to?"

I raised my glass in the air and spoke louder than was likely appropriate. "To being different!"

That elicited a warm giggle from the Asari, who lifted her drink in the same fashion as me with a much happier smile. "I can drink to that."

At that, we clinked our glasses together then simultaneously drank the alcoholic beverages in a single go. She downed it without any sign that she minded the taste. I, on the other hand, still cringed at the bitterness of it. "I think this's stronger than vodka."

She placed the now empty shot glass back on the counter and looked at me questioningly. "Vodka?"

"Yeah," I answered while putting my own down as well. "It's a really old Earth drink that tastes a lot like what we just had. It's usually made from distilled grains, so it's pretty easy and cheap to make ‒ probably why you don't serve it here."

Her gaze shifted down to the ground as she drifted away in her thoughts. There was only a brief silence between us before her eyes widened in realization. "I remember now. There was another Human here about three weeks ago ‒ said the same thing." She abruptly grimaced at the memory. "He had too many drinks and started accusing Tiso-" She motioned her head at the Turian bartender currently standing behind the counter. "-of putting food coloring in vodka and selling it as alien liquor."

"Must've been Russian," I joked with a chuckle. When she again peered at me with a confused expression, I simply shook my head and dismissed it with a wave of the hand. "Nevermind."

She shrugged in disinterest before turning her head to look over her shoulder. After a moment of scanning over the surrounding ongoings of Chora's Den, she returned to meet my gaze with a soft smile. "It's been nice talking to you, but I need to get back to work."

"Right, I've probably been takin' up too much of your time," I admitted apologetically with a half-smile of my own. "Wouldn't wanna get you in trouble, now."

"Yes, I'd like to keep my job." She giggled and placed her hand on my left forearm. "But really, you're a sweetheart. Don't be afraid to come back if you ever start getting a little bored." Her left eye shot me an affectionate wink before she suddenly leaned forward and planted a kiss on my cheek. "That's for the drink."

The unexpected sensation of her luscious blue lips pressing against my skin had an almost paralyzing effect. It wasn't something I had foreseen, and the act, once my brain registered it, caused a bright red glow from my cheeks. "Um..."

Noticing my blush, she laughed a final time and then turned around to walk away, likely to serve another paying customer. She looked back over her shoulders after only a few steps and wiggled her fingers as she waved goodbye. "The name's Aleena! Ask for me next time you're here, okay?"

I returned the farewell with a wave of my own. "Uh, sure thing!" Before she disappeared within the crowd, I stare at her in a sort of trance, in awe of what had just transpired. Everything that had been clawing at me for the past twenty-four hours vanished from my mind like a hefty weight being lifted off my shoulders. No longer was I pondering if I would ever see my family again, nor was I wondering if I would survive the ugly and war-torn future to come. At that very moment, I was only thinking about a certain Asari named Aleena I had just met, wondering when I would see her next. Sure, there was a very small voice in the back of my head trying to tell me her name sounded strangely familiar, but I was too mesmerized to give it any attention.

Oh, how I should have listened to that tiny voice.

—

"Are you crazy, or just plain stupid?" It had only been a little over twenty minutes since I left Chora's Den, and Greg was already glaring at me with a deathly thousand-yard stare from behind the pawnshop counter. I'd just asked him if he knew any decent arms dealers for me to meet. "Getting you a fake ID was one thing, and letting you stay at my place for the night was out of the kindness of my heart. But connecting you with black market dealers?"

"I need the weapons," I declared like a beggar. "Please."

"What the hell do you need weapons for?" He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "You aren't planning to go on a murderous rampage, are you?"

That forced me to take an incredulous step backward. "What? _No_, of course not! Why would you even think that?!"

"I only met you yesterday," he admitted with a shrug. "How am I supposed to know what goes on in your head?"

I opened my mouth to retort but found myself at a loss of words. Eventually, I instead closed my eyes with a suppressed sigh. "Okay, good point. But _no_," I hastily added once my eyes were open again. "I am _not_ going to go around shooting random people, old man. Now can you tell me where to find a goddamn weapon dealer already?!"

He lifted his open palms in a surrendering gesture. "Alright, alright. Just calm down before your head explodes." Before speaking again, he lowered his arms and activated his standard orange-colored omnitool. "I'm sending you information on a Turian that goes by the name of Blackjack. He's not the friendliest sort, but he'll get you gear if you have the money."

I raised my left arm to chest height and, with a specific motion of my fingers and wrist, activated on my omnitool. Unlike Greg's, mine was a cheap and outdated model that glowed a light blue. I couldn't help but cringe slightly when attempting to select the messenger app ‒ my index finger phased through the holographic interface of the colloidal device and poked my arm. I still needed to get used to that_._ "Where do I find him?"

"Take a Fast Transit taxi to Arm Five's factory district and follow the instructions I sent you." No more than a second later after he closed his omnitool did my device report the successful transfer with an electronic ping. "Just don't do anything stupid and you'll be fine."

I hastily skimmed over my inbox before deactivating my omnitool, planning to carefully read the details of the message while riding the taxi service to Arm Five. "Right..." His last remark certainly attracted my attention, but I decided to ignore my curiosity. "Why's his nickname Blackjack? Isn't that a little too Human for a Turian?"

"No idea, but don't ask him."

"Why," I asked, cocking a questioning eyebrow.

"Like I said, he isn't a friendly kind of guy. Not like Turians to usually be, but he doesn't classify as an asshole because he's rude in conversations." Greg leaned forward over the counter again, only this time the expression on his face was frighteningly serious as his piercing gaze met mine. "I'd do well to remember that if I were you, kid."

—

As most Mass Effect players from the 'real world' knew, the architecture of the Citadel consisted of a central ring and five arms – the Presidium and Wards respectively. What all of them likely didn't know, however, was that the arms were numbered and classified based on their distinct economic focuses. For example, Arm One was the heart of the station's cultural landscape, home to attractions such as the Silver Sun Strip and the wealthiest entrepreneurs in Council Space. A person would find casinos, theme parks, and companies dedicated to social practices like fashion and clothing design.

Each arm of the Citadel had large residential zones accompanying their economic districts, all except Arm One which served as a metropolis similar in nature to Las Vegas. These zones were comparable to small cities, and they were where the average citizens of the station ‒ those who worked in the factories and offices ‒ lived. Most small businesses and mom-and-pop stores were also within the zones.

Unlike the portrayals of the Mass Effect games, traversing a densely populated forty-six-kilometer-long space station was not an effortless task. The Citadel was a massive megacity all on its own, and it showed when one encountered the ironically normal problems expected from such. Crowded streets, traffic jams on the predesignated 'roadways' for aircars, horrible public transportation even while automated, etcetera. With that in mind, I needed a few distractions to keep me busy during my hour-long trip to the dealer.

The first on the list was researching Shepard's backstory. With my omnitool activated and wirelessly connected to the extranet, I typed in "Commander Shepard" on the browser's default search engine. Or, at least tried to without getting annoyed every time my finger pushed too far through the hologram to press another letter. The results of the search popped up soon enough, and I selected the first link that brought me to a GNBC news article covering Torfan.

_Okay, so_ Elizabeth_ Shepard is a woman._ Her gender didn't matter to me, but what I read about her practically screamed Renegade._ Mindoir Survivor... Butcher of Torfan... _ It wasn't exactly reassuring my admittedly Paragon sensibilities. _At least joining her crew would make an interesting experience_, I told myself.

After reading and skimming through several more links, I began to notice something peculiar. None of the stories or articles had a picture of the Commander. I filtered the search engine to display images, but only photos of the aftermaths on Mindoir and Torfan were in the results. I thought it was strange at first, but then slowly realized it made sense. _She _is_ part of the most elite Special Operations unit in the Alliance. _It only made sense that they would keep the essential details of her identity hidden. And if that were the case, was it possible that her name was an alias as well?

I closed my eyes and released another sigh as my head leaned back over the faux leather aircar seat, choosing to take my mind off Shepard for the time being. The soft cushioning quickly began spurring me into a deep slumber, though, and my last thought before sleep took me was that maybe – just maybe – the future wouldn't turn out too horribly.

It was probably a fool's hope, but I'd never been the smartest chip on the block.


End file.
